Chapter 6
Chapter
Six
ALEX
I arrive at Clara's address at precisely seven, a fact that would surprise my assistant, who has spent years scheduling buffer time to accommodate my habitual lateness to events I'd rather avoid.
Tonight is different. I've been ready since six, pacing my penthouse like a teenager before prom, checking my watch with embarrassing frequency.
The Bentley idles at the curb outside a modest apartment building above a row of small businesses—her bakery below, her home above. Practical. Efficient. Utterly Clara.
I straighten my bow tie, a needless adjustment to perfection, and press the buzzer for apartment 2B.
"Coming!" Her voice sounds different through the intercom—higher, perhaps nervous. It occurs to me suddenly that I've never heard Clara nervous before. Flustered, yes. Irritated, certainly. But never this particular note of anxiety that makes something protective stir in my chest.
I hear footsteps approach the door, a pause—likely a final check in a mirror—and then it opens.
I forget to breathe.
Clara stands in the doorway in a deep red dress that falls to the floor in a waterfall of silk, the color so rich it reminds me of wine held to candlelight.
The neckline dips in a modest V, revealing the elegant line of her collarbones and a hint of cleavage that manages to be both tasteful and maddening.
Her hair, usually confined in a practical bun, cascades over one shoulder in glossy waves.
She's applied makeup—subtle, emphasizing eyes that suddenly seem impossibly large and dark.
She looks nothing like the flour-dusted baker who haunts my dreams. She looks like she belongs on my arm at events exactly like tonight's. Yet the nervous way she bites her lower lip is purely, perfectly Clara.
"Is it too much?" she asks, misinterpreting my silence. "The stylist you sent brought several options, and this one seemed the least…ostentatious."
"It's perfect," I say, my voice rougher than intended. "You're perfect."
Color rises in her cheeks, and I realize I've never given her a direct compliment before. An oversight I intend to correct immediately.
"The dress was made for you," I continue, taking in details I missed in my initial shock—the way the fabric hugs her waist before flaring gently at her hips, the delicate gold bracelet at her wrist, the small ruby earrings that catch the light when she moves her head.
"It's on loan," she reminds me, but her hand smooths the silk self-consciously.
"Not anymore," I decide. "Consider it payment for tonight."
Her eyes narrow. "I told you I wasn't going to accept—"
"Clara," I interrupt gently, "you're doing me a favor by attending. The dress is compensation, not charity. Excellent business arrangement, perfectly balanced."
She looks skeptical but reaches for a small clutch purse that matches the dress. "I'll consider it. No promises."
I offer my arm, and after a brief hesitation, she places her hand in the crook of my elbow.
The simple contact—her fingers against my jacket sleeve—sends a current of awareness up my arm.
She smells different tonight too—something floral but subtle, a significant departure from her usual vanilla and cinnamon scent that I've come to associate with comfort and home.
The thought stops me cold. When did I start associating Clara Benson with home?
"Everything okay?" she asks, picking up on my momentary pause.
"Fine," I say, guiding her toward the waiting car. "Just calculating how many men I'll need to glare into submission tonight when they inevitably stare at you."
She laughs, a nervous, breathless sound. "Right. Because I'm usually fighting off admirers with my rolling pin."
I open the car door for her, taking the opportunity to properly see her from behind as she slides into the backseat.
The dress hugs her curves perfectly, the silk catching the streetlight in a way that makes my mouth dry.
I've escorted supermodels and actresses to events without a second thought, but the sight of Clara in that red dress makes my heart pound against my ribs like I'm twenty again.
"This is intimidating," she admits when I join her in the backseat. "I've never been to anything like this."
"You've served thousands of customers," I remind her as the car pulls away from the curb. "Made small talk. Remembered preferences. This is the same, just with better champagne and worse conversation."
She smiles, some of the tension leaving her shoulders. "When you put it that way, it sounds almost manageable."
"Besides," I add, "you'll be with me the entire evening. Anyone who makes you uncomfortable will find themselves suddenly persona non grata in several social circles."
Her eyes widen slightly. "That's…a bit terrifying."
"It's protective," I correct. "You're entering this world as my guest, which puts you under my protection. I take that responsibility seriously."
"I can handle myself," she says, chin lifting slightly. "I've been dealing with difficult people since I first stepped behind a counter."
"I know you can," I say, surprising myself with how much I mean it. "But you shouldn't have to, not tonight. Tonight is about you experiencing the benefits of my world without the drawbacks."
She studies me for a long moment, as if trying to solve a particularly complex puzzle. "Why are you doing this? Really?"
The question deserves honesty, but I'm not sure I fully understand the answer myself.
"Because I want to see you shine," I finally say.
"Because I want to show you possibilities beyond what you've imagined for yourself.
Because I want to watch every man in that room envy me when you walk in on my arm. "
She blushes again, the color spreading down her neck to her chest in a way that makes me want to trace it with my fingers. With my tongue.
"That's…very possessive," she says carefully.
"Yes," I agree, not bothering to deny it. "I am a possessive man, Clara. It's better you understand that now."
Her eyes darken at my bluntness, but she doesn't look away. "I'm not yours to possess."
"Not yet," I say quietly.
We arrive at the Thornton Hotel, where the gala is being held. The red carpet leading to the entrance is lined with photographers—local society pages, charity publications, a few mainstream media outlets. Clara tenses beside me as she sees them.
"We can use the side entrance," I offer immediately.
She straightens her shoulders. "No. I'm your date for the official thing, right? Let's do this properly."
Her courage impresses me. I exit first, then offer my hand to help her from the car. When she emerges, the flash of cameras intensifies. Clara blinks against the sudden brightness but doesn't falter.
I place my hand at the small of her back, guiding her forward. The possessive gesture isn't lost on the photographers, who immediately start calling questions.
"Mr. Devereux! Who's your date tonight?"
"This way, please!"
"Are you two an item?"
I ignore them all, focusing instead on Clara's reaction. She's handling it better than most first-timers, keeping her head high, her expression composed. But I feel the slight tremor under my palm, the tension in her body.
"Almost through," I murmur close to her ear. "You're doing beautifully."
We enter the hotel's grand ballroom, transformed for tonight into a winter wonderland of white flowers, crystal, and subtle gold accents.
Immediately, heads turn in our direction.
I watch the reactions ripple through the crowd—recognition of me, curiosity about my companion, the inevitable assessment of her beauty, her dress, her right to be here.
The men look too long, their gazes lingering on the curves highlighted by red silk. The women study her with calculating eyes, trying to place her in their mental hierarchies. No one approaches immediately—my reputation ensures a certain buffer zone of respect or fear, depending on the individual.
Clara takes it all in with wide eyes, her grip on my arm tightening slightly. "Everyone's staring," she whispers.
"Because you're stunning," I reply honestly. "And because you're with me. I rarely bring dates to these things."
Her eyebrows raise. "Really? I figured you'd always have some model or socialite on your arm."
"I attend. I donate. I leave," I explain. "Arm candy is optional and usually more trouble than it's worth."
"So what am I?" she asks, a challenge in her voice. "Arm pastry instead of arm candy?"
I smile despite myself. "You, Clara Benson, are the exception to every rule I've ever made."
The simple truth of this statement hits me with unexpected force.
She is an exception—to my rules about business and pleasure remaining separate, about keeping emotional distance, about maintaining control in all things.
Since the moment she walked into my home with flour on her nose and determination in her spine, Clara has been systematically dismantling defenses I spent years perfecting.
And the most disturbing part? I'm letting her.
As we move deeper into the room, I find myself watching her more than the crowd, captivated by her genuine wonder at the opulence around us. She doesn't belong in my world of calculated charity and strategic social connections. Yet somehow, she makes this world better simply by being in it.
I intend to ensure she stays there—safe, protected, and mine in every way that matters.